Farewell, My Yakuza
by Assassin For Hire
Summary: 3/19/03 CHAP TWO UP!! "IMPRISONMENT!" Money. Women. Slavery. New X-Men's Wolverine and Cyclops get a nasty surprise when their Japanese beneficiary in Tokyo turns out to be more than he seems! [PLEASE R/R!]
1. Blindsight

FAREWELL, MY YAKUZA  
Chapter One - "Blindsight"

Originally a roleplay.

Cyclops written by Kabanas  
Wolverine written by Esteban Sanchez

A normal flight around the world from Manhattan to Tokyo took 12 hours, 45 minutes on a commercial jet. The X-Men's stealth fighter MIG, affectionately called the Blackbird, could make it there in an hour and a half. Straddled within the cockpit of the craft's main console with a teammate in tow, Scott Summers, mutation optic blasts, alias Cyclops, guided the plane high above sea level within a few minutes of the Asian capital. Tokyo's business district was to the Far East what Wall Street was to North America. Its towering skycrapers dotted the hazy, cloud-lined distance, but though the man in black leather costume made gestures that clearly indicated he was safely piloting the multi-million dollar craft, his mind was anywhere but on the mission. If anything, it was 5,000 miles behind him, buried amidst the intoxicating psychic haven that one Emma Frost had invited him in. An English rose garden. Her in a white miniskirt. The man was treading on a borderline-risque psychic connection that no one but himself and the former White Queen were a part of, but if you had asked Cyclops what he was doing at that moment, he'd have answered he was merely daydreaming... Emma meant nothing to him, absolutely nothing, but damn...she was -persuasive- nowadays. He listened to her when she talked, even when it was her voice occupying his mind, and not his wife's. The field leader turned to his teammate. "Kenji Fujimoto Tower is on the eastern side of the city, and from Charles' description of him, the man is not a pleasant human being. But his business is legitimate, even though he won't come to terms with his own mutancy. We had better put on our nicest white men smiley faces if our efforts are to be successful at urging the man to make a financial pledge to the institute. The cash simply isn't rolling from Charles' current investments like it used to." 

Tokyo, Japan. It and Logan had history. Shingen. Harada, Yukio...Amiko. Ogun. Mariko. The list of names went on and on and as far back as memory served. He once came here to temper an ever-growing rage, an anger that he has yet to overcome. He once came here for love, and petty quarrels ended up in death. He came here to learn the ways of the warriors of old, only to be betrayed bitterly by a man he trusted. The mutant loathed this place as much as he loved it. Eyes glanced over the landscape he'd seen so many times before, that certain set of butterflies wreaking havoc in his gut. Logan never knew what to expect coming here. He took a moment to glance over at Scott, a wry smile working it's way over his face. He had to be chatting with Emma...he had that look on his face...like he was being toyed with and enjoying every second of it. Then the man spoke, Wolverine holding onto his smile, "That's yer job, bub. I'm here to change his mind if he says -no-." The butterflies had dispersed.

Years of kinship with his senior partner -- some bad, some good, some life-altercating -- hadn't changed the way Cyclops dealt with Wolverine's wit. In fact, these days he was getting to be immuned to the man's banter, responding with characteristic silence. Deep hues of blue danced around beneath his wraparound visor (one that had recently received a slimmer design), quietly musing over the honesty in Logan's words. Business dealings gratified Scott, it was true. He was finding less and less importance in being the team's guiding voice now that Emma and Hank were the principal instructors at Mutant High. He didn't need to preach to everyone anymore. "You gonna do that in English or Japanese?" Cyclops quipped evenly, moving on to asking the authorities permission to land on Fujimoto tower's expansive launching pad. He spent the next few minutes doing so via their overhead intercom. There was an obvious synchronicity between the two men as they worked together to man the craft. It established the mutual trust they each placed on their partnership. Cyclops peered through the window into the pristine glass archway that lead inside the building. He failed to see the welcome party composed of primarily beautiful Japanese women that had gathered around the Blackbird, failed to realize that they had been watching the two men since their arrival. The platform lowered, and Cyclops frowned visibly at the unexpected sight. The women were practically Playboy material. "Is this supposed to be customary?" Summers muttered low enough for his teammate to hear.

"Nothin' gets the point across like these." Wolverine's right hand was raised, and a single adamantium-laced claw sprung from it. The weapon retracted back into his arm, Logan reading Scott's face without looking at him. They were an odd couple, of sorts; Scott being methodical about his job, while Logan was a bit more haphazard. The plane landed softly, and when they exited, the miniscule Canadian was just as surprised as his teammate. "If it's ain't, it should be." Women. Thirty, from what he could count. And in the midst of them all, Kenji Fujimoto. He was smaller than the picture shown at the briefing, though he had a nice build on him. Snf, Snf. Image inducer. The guy had something to hide. All of -his- types did. 'Welcome, X-Men. I do hope my staff is to your liking.' His English was surprisingly good, his many dealings with the U.S. attesting for that. Logan turned to Scott, who still looked amazed, and walked down the ramp to the ground. Four girls instantly latched themselves to him, smiling their best. "Yer staff, eh? Not hirin' are ya, bub?" They had a light laugh, and after Scott joined them and collected his -escorts-, they made their way into the building. 'We could use someone with your...expertise on our staff. I have heard much about you X-Men. I like what I hear.' Fujimoto Tower was amazing. The entire interior was dominated by white, be it furniture, paintings, even animals. The air was even fresher. Kenji took them on a small tour, chattering away about his conquest in the business world, though he rarely said anything about the pending business between he and the two X-Men.

Speaking of white... The White Queen slithering around Scott's mind was dismissed with a curt, We'll discuss this when I get home, Emma. before he 'stood' from his make believe bench and forcibly cut off any psychic contact. He hadn't even remembered how the mental projection had commenced. Sure as hell wasn't at his request. Five thousand miles away, Scott imagined the veritable look of disgust on the woman's face, but his attention was quickly distracted away from Emma when a set of Japanese women began flocking to him. In customary Cyclops form, Scott shrugged off their advances with as much politeness as he could muster and undid his pilot gloves, stuffing them inside the pockets of his leather jacket. His hands were folded behind him. If that gesture didn't indicate that he was fine off without their 'assistance', the gleaming gold band on his wedding finger must have surely done the trick. Didn't mean that Fujimoto's women hovered near him at a constant two feet's worth of distance, though. "Thank you for having us, Mr. Fujimoto. My name is Scott Summers, this is my teammate, Logan." Though the businessman's inner sanctum was a mirrored image of Heaven, Cyclops couldn't help but detect traces of an unpleasant scent that lingered about the room. One gaze at Wolverine asked silently if the Canuck had smelled it too. 

As their tour ended back in front of Fujimoto's desk, Scott decided it was high time to press onwards with business. This time, he'd try at a little persuasion. "We're aware of Fujimoto Industries' high stake in the Asian stock market, not to mention the -charitable- works that you have contributed to Amnesty International and the global crisis of mutant starvation in third world countries. We've been following your involvement as a pro-Homo superior activist and we thank you for your generous -interest- in funding some of our programs." Summers unzipped his jacket, revealing a pressed black dress shirt, from which he pulled out a small projection device. The man was ready with a Powerpoint presentation and everything. "We've put a slideshow of our institute--" Cyclops' words died quietly as he noticed a troupe of MIBs entering the room from the reflection of the ceiling-high windows. "--We were honored that you would have us here without having even seen pictures of our school..." Scott trailed off, his conscience finally kickstarting to life. Fujimoto had ceased saying anything. Before Summers could ponder on that curiosity, metal blinds crashed down over the windows, and the room was suddenly rent a harsh shade of red.

The two X-Men had been partners far longer than they cared to--through all the turmoil and angst they had between them, they were still just that...partners. So when Scott gave Logan -that- look, he knew exactly what he was thinking about, and offered his own silent reply. He'd indeed smelled whatever it was...hell, he'd smelled it before they'd gotten off the 'Bird. Logan couldn't place it, rifling through the catalog of scents he'd committed to memory. He didn't have much of a chance to figure out the source, either, the exotic beauties breaking their necks to stay near him keeping him occupied. They sidled him from every angle...and it was no different when they entered Kenji's office. The women dispersed themselves around the room, though two hovered around the boys, smiling and the like. Something didn't feel right. That sulfuric smell was filling the air, and he still couldn't pinpoint the source. He could hear footsteps coming down the hall...he could smell the gun oil. Two seconds later, the said MIBs enter.

He could tell Cyclops had noticed too, and he was all ready to stand until convinced otherwise by a dainty hand. Something -wasn't- right. All but the two females had left the roomjust in time before the click of locking doors and metal shudders slamming down over the windows. The room went red, Fujimoto never moving from his chair. 'Gentlemen, I'm sorry, but I must cut our little meeting short.' It was apparent where the smell was coming from now, Fujimoto smirking when he'd noticed the sneer on Logan's face. 'I see you've found me out. Took you longer than expected...I guess the pheromones from my beauties camouflaged my own scent.' Wolverine tried to get to his feet, that guttural howl that had become his trademark rumbling in his chest. He felt weak, even more so when one of the two models roundhouse kicked him in the neck, sending him past Cyclops in a heap. 'Beautiful... Mr. Summers, care to give it a go?' 

Cyclops knew what trouble meant when it came barreling his way in the form of three hundred pounds of adamantium. There was an explosive crash on the mahogany desk in front of him -- Wolverine's slumped form. Cyclops knew the mutant was down, but never in their history had he ever seen the man -out-. Not even when the metal from Logan's bones was magnetically pried off his body through every orifice. But Summers wasn't blessed with regenerative powers like his more stout partner was. No, he had to watch his own back right now. Instinct and lifelong involvement in similar ambushes drove Scott's hand to his visor, but his usually fatal aim missed Fujimoto's diminutive figure as a steel wire was roughly noosed around the field leader's neck and sharply yanked him backwards. The stray optic blast blew out one of the windows, letting the sunshine shatter forth like fireworks, adding more momentum to the fray. Cyclops recalled his knowledge of self-defense and forcibly ducked his head, turning his torso around 180 degrees to be face-to-face with his attacker. It was one of the women, glowering at him with all her teeth bared and a noxious gas coming from her mouth. But it was a scent dissimilar to the one Scott had smelled earlier. A smell that was now permeating the very room around them, driving the leader's stomach muscles to clench, affecting his gag reflexes, stinging his eyes. Sonofabitch...it was coming from Fujimoto! 

From behind, Cyclops could hear tranquilizer darts being pumped into Logan's body like lead (they were finding they needed a dosage strong enough to fell a bison), then the distinct sound of his teammate struggling ferociously as his body was dragged off by MIBs. Two seconds...three seconds... Five more and Cyclops would lose consciousness. But he was shitfaced and unable to breathe. He barely had the strength to lift his arms, with the powerful fumes the woman in front of him was emitting. It was driving his loins insane at the same time it made him lose consciousness. The remaining MIBs aimed their tranq guns at him. Enough of this. "Honey, keep your...dirty....money." Trembling, Summers curled his fingers over his right wrist and pushed the emergency detonator that was wired to his visor. His latest plaything. THOOM! The woman flew across forty feet of empty space and knocked back a few guards on her way. It was the best Cyclops could to do delay the situation before a heavy wooden bookend was cracked over his head, knocking him unconscious for Fujimoto to detain. 

Ouch. That's what Wolverine would have said if he could breathe. Stiletto heels make nice holes, the one in the stout mutant's neck no exception. It didn't deter him, though, from getting to his feet, adamantium-laced claws peeling through the backs of his hands. Where was that bitch that kicked him? There... Shit, she was on Scott before he'd gotten a chance to get a good shot off. His neck was almost sealed, though asphyxiation was the least of his worries. He felt the sting of tranquilizer darts lodging into his back, the burly Canuck whipping around to spot the men who'd entered earlier, guns in hand and reloading as he thought. Six darts...wouldn't leave time for much. Wolverine was on the first guy who hadn't quite finished loading another dart, slicing his weapon to ribbons and throwing a kick to his mid-section. That was all he had time for, the effects of the tranq darts and the putrid stench coming from Fujimoto taking effect. He dropped like a stone, his eyes starting to glaze over...the last few images of his teammates struggle etched in his mind. Then everything went dark.

An hour later...

Time passed, and eventually the darkness gave over to blinding flourescent lights. Scott Summers was awake, if you could call his current condition of suspended living a state of wakefulness. Buckled leather straps held his limbs down in place on a cold, sterile operating table while he took shallow inhales of pure oxygen through a breathing mask. Seventy-five floors down Fujimoto Tower and here they were. Being held against their will, operated upon like lab rats. The smell down here was no better than the smell upstairs, the air rent with a noxious mix of formaldehyde, dopamine, anesthesia, and the same toxic nerve gas that spoke of their captor's nearby whereabouts. The bastard was here somewhere, Scott could -smell- him. Fujimoto, however, was nowhere to be seen, though the field leader struggled to focus his weakened vision to find him. Head lolling to one side, Cyclops' line of sight was instead greeted by more of the same gorgeous women that had kicked his ass earlier. The fembot-ripoffs were armed this time, some of them carrying uzis, some of them with operating knives, some with serving utensils... Serving utensils? 

Scott ignored the ringing in his ears and the distracting taste of coppery blood in his mouth to do a double take. He made out what looked to be a food cart, lavishly decorated with a silver tray, a few plates, and garnished vegetables. What the hell was this, a siesta? And then he saw it, out of the refracted glare of his ruby visor... Steel. Steel everywhere... He felt it on his chest -- the cool, distant touch of its vicelike grip on his ribcage and collarbone; a clamp that was wedged inside his skin, exposing the muscles on his right chest like a freshly carved turkey. Like...like a freshly carved turkey -dinner-... Sonuva..... The sight was almost enough to make a grown man pass out. But where there ought to have been pain, the sensations were a phantom to him, thanks to the strong tranquilizers earlier that now doubled as anaesthesia. Scott rolled his eyes back into their sockets and swallowed the bile in his throat. He thought of his pretty wife at home, about the two kids they were going to have one day, about the brown, orphaned mutt that was going to jump on their bed and wake them up every morning with its incessant barking... He saw images that he couldn't separate between old memories and real time. Scott was a perfectly healthy child growing up, a good-looking teenager, until his sight was taken away from him during that fateful plane crash that killed his parents but spared him and Alex. He spent months being hospitalized, treated for broken legs and irregular sinus problems.

These lights reminded Scott of his childhood in those hospitals. Reminded him of his early days in the X-Men when his power was still uncontrollable and he spent every waking moment training under the harsh lights of the Danger Room. The man's thoughts drifted back to his partner -- not whether Wolverine was dead or alive (he was most certainly -alive-) -- but how bad off he was. God help help them, there was no way in hell this would be their end. The man refused to die like this. In a place so far removed from home. In so a dishonorable position. But Cyclops, it seems, had contemplated on survival too soon... A gloved MIB peered down over his chest, blocking the mutant's view of the lab lights around him. The surgeon asked for a scalpel in Japanese, made a careful incision, then held up a bloodied, dripping section of the mutant's pectoral muscle for everyone to see. His own raw flesh pinched between a pair of surgical tongs like some prize trophy... It was too much for his remaining senses. Cyclops suddenly felt his heart stop beating, and Jean and the kids faded far away..... 

Elsewhere....

'Scalpel.' The darkness was soothing. Warm. Comforting. He wanted to just sit backand embrace it. 'Amazing. The wound has already started to heal...' The voices were miles away, but he could hear themhe could taste the plastic...feel the air tube clogging his throat. '...a substance known as adamantium.' No. He struggled to open his eyesstrained to break the wrist and ankle restraints. It was like he never moved at all. No. He could feel the cold steel piercing through his skinthey numbed him up with enough morphine he could almost taste it. That same smell of sulfur was in the air again...'Stop toying with him. Extract what I desire and be done with the both of them.' Fujimoto. That bastardit was all coming back to Logan nowthe women up topthe guards pumping him full of tranquilizers. He was helpless, a sense of Déjà vu overwhelming him. Weapon X. No. He wouldn't go through that again... 'Something's wrong. His heart rate's accelerating...' He overcame the weight of his eyelids...four pair of surprised eyes staring back at him. Earlier attempts to escape were futile; now, he had a hand free...free until it latched around one of the surgeons' necks. 'He broke the restraint...if he escapes we're all dead!' He peered down at his body...his chest was exposed to the adamanitum bonewhat the hell? That didn't help the doctor's situation, the hand around his neck only getting tighter. That's when he felt that familiar sting, then three more just like it... Bastards...they'd tranq'ed him up again. His grip loosened, enough for his hand to be forced off the MDthe blow to his skull with an Uzi made it even quicker. His head slumped back onto the table...the darkness was warm.

More unpleasantries coming in Chapters Two and Three..

Disclaimer: Cyclops, Wolverine, Jean Grey, Emma Frost copyright Marvel Comics. No profit was made off of this transcript. Story ideas and minor characters copyright kabanas and Stephen Smith 2003. We would very much appreciate some feedback.


	2. Imprisonment

FAREWELL, MY YAKUZA  
Chapter Two - "Imprisonment"

Cyclops by Kabanas  
Wolverine by Esteban Sanchez

The lights had returned, but it came in the form of amber lamps that bathed the basement prison cell around him with unsettling dreariness. Summers awoke to the muffled sounds of conversation outside, echoes of Fujimoto's voice in the adjoining hallway. 'And you say this craft is top of the line?' The answer came in Japanese. 'What about the onboard computer - does it have the database I need?' The field leader shook off his vertigo and attempted to peel his face off the cold cement floor, both of his feet struggling to withstand his own disorientation. 'Bypass it,' came the subsequent order, before Fujimoto's tiny steps ascended closer in their direction. The world around him was a shade darker than he would have liked, but Scott's unpleasantries were buried as soon as he realized his visor was still firmly attached over his eyes. He didn't consider that anything but an advantage. The shadow unmovingly occupying the corner of the room could only be Logan, but aside from the reverberating glow of the electroshock bars containing them within the room, the two men were alone in their prison. Outside the rest of Tokyo, the sun had died and was already replaced by the cover of darkness. For Scott, however, time had dragged on for so long that it was no longer a measurable device in his mind. His watch was missing. He wondered at the hour. He wondered if Jean had picked up any of his distraught halfway across the world... He wondered what the hell Fujimoto was staring at...

'Gentlemen...' the stout figure began, patting his stomach with a sordid grin. 'Welcome to our sub-basement containment cells. I hope you've had a pleasant sleep... I do apologize for cutting business short... You see, the grand scheme had always been more involving than wasting away our finances in your little school, though you greatly honor me with your attendance. Let me introduce you to your personal ward--' Fujimoto tossed a yen at the electric bars, and suddenly a fierce crackle of immense voltage erupted in the space between himself and his prisoners with almost blinding persuasion. The bars were clearly something that shouldn't be toyed with. '20,000 volts are pumping through that wall every millisecond, a little less than the speed of thought. Stepping through it will turn your skin into dust, Mr. Summers, and heat the adamantium inside your friend's body to a good 300 degrees Farenheit. My own invention. You see, Fujimoto Industries is not only a pioneer in the plastics industry, gentlemen. My real trade lies in the biochemical research and wholesale distribution of modified genosuperior organs. The demand for mutant parts in the black market is astronomical these days. Heck, with all the urban legends that mutation is becoming contagious, our customers are practically licking the last drop of blood off of our products. The Church of Humanity. The U-Men. I'm sure you're familiar with their recent interest in harnessing superhuman endowments in the likenesses of our kind. Everyone wants to be just like the X-Men. Like -us-.' That sordid grin spread fast into a satisfied smirk. 'Or did I fail to mention earlier that I'm one of you?'

Their captor daintilly dabbed at the corners of his lips with a silk handkerchief. 'In any case, don't make yourselves too comfortable. Your fate lies elsewhere within our facilities this evening. You're to pay our incineration chambers a visit in my honest attempts at packaging the remains of your cadavers inside freeze packs.' Fujimoto turned to go before Cyclops could even get a word in. 'Oh, I almost forgot. I hope you don't mind if I borrow that remarkable aircraft of yours. I'll have particular use for it in tracking down the rest of your teammates.' A flippant hand gesture and the guards turned to escort Fujimoto outside.

The memory hit Logan hard enough to stagger him, and did so, his body slumping into the corner. He could still smell the doctors...the anesthetics... They'd used -a lot- of drugs. They'd doped him up enough to keep him still, but he remembered it all. That was a mistake. Logan adhered to the corner now, unmoving, not a sound, save his labored breathing, passing his lips. Cyclops had been out for hours -- the Canuck could still smell his blood, still hear his heart struggling to beat on cue. What had Fujimoto done? It hadn't taken long for his eyes to adjust... Everything had been put back like they'd never been touched, save for his watch and transmitter that had become standard issue for any X-Man. Kenji had been doing his homework just like they...like Cyclops...had, and Logan felt like that was too much. Xavier had been too trusting in his beneficiaries, and now they were paying for it. Oh well, one more -bad guy- to trounce... As soon as he found a way out. Logan could hear footsteps coming down the hall... The heavier ones had to be Fujimoto's...an image inducer doesn't disguise weight. He listened to them converse -- he was fluent in Japanese -- and held back a snarl growing in his gut.

He took the time to search for an escape, though Scott was more the tactician than he. He could feel the heat of the bars from where he sat, and checked chancing them off his list. The floor was concrete...on top of titanium. Granted, he could do it...but he'd be digging all day, and from the way Fujimoto was talking, they didn't even have three hours. Scott moved. Logan still hadn't uttered a word, just let the darkness silhouette his form. Fujimoto stepped in front of the cell, 'Gentlemen...', and went about issuing them their fate. Wolverine could feel it, the demon...the one that kept him from truly feeling human, the one that harbored all his rage, building up inside him, and it manifested itself as a sniff...and almost into a laugh when Logan realized what he'd just smelled. His own flesh...his blood...hell, he could smell the soap Scott used...all on Kenji Fujimoto's breath. That bastard. Fujimoto, as if cued, dabbed at his lips, and that smile was just too hearty. A cannibal. Xavier wanted funds from Hannibal Lector. By the time he'd made this revelation, both men were gone, and he was standing, a hand falling to Scott's shoulder. "We're leavin'."

Cyclops let his gaze fall over his shoulder, eyes weary beneath those ruby plates. He propped a chin up and resumed eyeing their barrier coldly. "Sounds like a plan." Frodo and Sam never had it this bad. Hell, Aragorn and Legolas probably never went under the knife quite the way they did. But Scott's silence usually indicated that he was hard at contemplation, and that was a good a sign as any. Fearless was back on track. Scott zipped his jacket over his tattered shirt and open chest, which had been bandaged up nicely from the neck on down. The pain was still throbbing over his right pectoral, but at least he could still breathe properly. They must have left all of his lungs intact. What the hell did Fujimoto want with them? That was the puzzle Scott was dying to figure out the most. As soon as they got out of here... Cyclops advanced forward, basking in the heat of the pulsing lines that were gridlocked in front of them, looking for the source of their origin. "The mechanisms keeping these bars in place are probably electro-conducive in nature, otherwise, they wouldn't be so straight. Their source path is here somewhere..." He looked, and looked, and got as close to the bars as possible without frying the leather on his jacket. "Bingo... Magnetic casings housed in rubber sleeves. The current is circulating from a closer source. A main power supply, maybe. We're must be in their basement." Summers turned around and mulled over their options at that point. "I can do this. It's like shooting skeet." And everyone knows...Summers had practiced doing just that a thousand times before in training.

"So long as my blasts are on target with the bolts, we won't have to worry about the ping pong effect. The current will be interrupted as soon as circulation is cut off. It's risky, but it's a worth a shot. Unless, of course, you plan on digging us out of here..." Logan's unamused look was translated as an affirmative nod. Scott then paced further up and down the room, peering into the broad hallway before them. "Security cameras on the western facade. We'll probably have five seconds before the guards call for backup." And with that, Cyclops took a step back and hovered two fingers over his visor's trigger, setting the width of his blast to a quiet four inches, aiming carefully for the tiny metal cylinders lining each side of the walls which were shooting out voltage. He'd need Logan to step away from the bars so that the adamantium in his body wouldn't become the next conductor. Electricity, after all, has a notorious property of wanting to leech on to the nearest metal once it's set loose. Essentially, what Cyclops was attempting was suicidal at best... Unless it worked. If it didn't, the stray lines would electrocute them both in a manner of seconds. Wolverine would just have to trust him.

Cyclops stilled his frame and held his breath for complete control over his muscles. "I'd advise you to duck right about now." Thoom!... Thoom!... Thoom!... And so it went, each bolt fixture noisily clattering to concrete, hailing the guards' attention. Optic blasts haphazardly bounced off the walls but never touched its master. Darkness fell across the two men once more as their light source died, but the curling smoke over Scott's visor indicated that the two of them were still alive. And standing. They were free. A few seconds later, guns clicked in their direction, followed by a bevy of armed guards that blocked their entrance. Now they could play.

The man was good. He'd hit all his targets with little effort it seemed...which scared Logan...only a little. But he knew they wouldn't have a few minutes to spare... He'd heard a guard down the hall on the northern block of cells, choking on cigarette smoke...two more on an adjacent hall playing cards. They'd be there as soon as the first shot was let off...and he'd be waiting. Payback was a bitch...and Logan was her bastard child. As soon as darkness took the room, as the beams dissipated from existence, he let his claws free, let loose a howl that would curdle the freshest blood, and let out into the hallway. Guards swarmed him from every corner, guns drawn, yelling orders and curses and whatever else they could think of... But what they saw that day...if they lived...would be told to their children, and their children's children. They saw a monster. Wolverine leapt into the fray, slashing wildly, downing anything that came into contact with his blades. Fujimoto had eaten a piece of him. It wasn't new...it was just surprising, as was the first time it happened. The man...thing...that first did that didn't get away with it either.

Logan heard that familiar sound, a concussive optic blast, and knew Scott had taken his lead and probably would be done with the other brigade before -his- squad had hit the floor. Their methods were so different yet had the same effect...people fell. Logan felt the sting of bullets rain on his back, yet the rage was great, the demon supplying him with the fervor to take every hit, and deliver twice-fold. He swept his right hand across the air, and guns were sectioned off into metal, his left hand taking the first throat it found. He took the man off his feet, using him and his flack jacket as a shield, until he reached another cadre of guards. He tossed his shield at one, dropped another with a swift roundhouse kick to the temple. He heard the guard's helmet sizzle against another set of electro-bars, though the sounds of screaming from another man drowned out his partner's cooking. His claws sank deep into the guard's thigh and he twisted them before yanking them free, a trail of thick blood following the weapons.

It felt...right. Logan stood over bodies...dead and dying, injured and inactive...and smiled. They wouldn't be the first...he could smell every individual guard in the building now...and they wouldn't be the last. But he didn't want them. Claws rushed back inside their homes, and he took another wayward sniff, inhaling all he could before locking on to the scent he wanted. "Th'bastards movin' fast. We ain't got time fer flunkies." He snapped his head back to Cyclops, knowing he would probably have said the same, and broke around the corner before the next set of guards could interrupt.

The Terminator. There was an appropriate nickname for someone like Scott who underwent such trials. In fact, the emphatic leader's advance through the narrow passage was so deadly and proficient that scarcely any difference lay between the man and the machine. He was a one-man laser cannon, mechanical in his movements. Thorough. Tactical. While blood may not have splattered forth from his victims as flashily as Wolverine's did, the field leaders' injuries were all dealt internally. And the hurt lasted twice as much. Under his tight dictation, these men would live. Scott strategically crippled his victims so that they remained alive but sustained so much pain from the pummeling of concussive blasts on their knees and chests that they might as well have wished for death. It was his own brand of punishment.

To counteract the terrible cacophony of screams from Logan's victims, Cyclops remained a pillar of tranquility in the massacre, his cleanly-shaven visage brooking no such emotions as his partner did. With a simple nudge of his temple, Scott's optic blasts followed the direct path of his gaze and totalled the army of men in front of him, his own vision blurred crimson from the thermal projectiles. He could see the smoke seething through the sides of his ruby lenses, could memorize the pattern of sounds the racks and pinion gears made against his face, could feel the tiny pistons violently roiling inside his visor to the beat of the carnage. Armed bodies were rapidly knocked off their balance and sent soaring down the empty hall, landing on polished concrete, sometimes on other bodies.

The sounds of consecutive cannon blasts were as destructive as the pained howls from the other end of the hallway. Scott bowled over two men at a time, sometimes three, until the entire army of guards was no more, leveled flat by his astonishing accuracy. One could have sworn this was a clone war being fought by two lone Jedi. No bullets could touch them. But while Scott's aim proved infallible when he was calm, there was no hiding the look of disapproval on his face when the man studied Wolverine's damage in the silent aftermath. Cyclops was a tactician who aimed to injure. Wolverine was a killer who didn't just stop at broken bones. "Logan..." The man's face clearly spoke against his partner's tactics, but the expected lecture would have to wait for a later recital. Kenji Fujimoto was still in the building and dangerous, and from the looks of the gaudy basement plaque that stared them in the face near the exit, they still had seventy-five damn stories to ascend before they could beat their enemy to the Blackbird. "Let's get the son of a bitch."

Fifty...a hundred... How many men had he felled that day? Wolverine hadn't kept count...it didn't matter...if they kept coming, the number would keep increasing. Guided by olfactory nerves that a bloodhound would envy, Wolverine trekked up countless flights of stairs, painted countless walls with countless pints of blood. He'd put a considerable distance between himself and Summers, though the emphatic thud of ambient energy let him know that the man was still within earshot. He settled, only for a moment, straining his acute hearing on the heartbeats of the soldiers. He could hear them pounding, almost trembling...he could smell the adrenaline...fear stunk. It made him smile, toothily, the chase becoming all the more fun. Fujimoto had about ten floors on them from what he could gather, and without the opposition they garnered, would make his escape far before they reached the top. Damn. Logan's rage only grew at the revelation, tossing another lifeless body aside and storming onto the next floor.

That's when it hit him...that smell...that unmistakable stench that had weakened him so much earlier. The female stood defiant at the end of the hall, unmoving, her mouth agape and the sulfuric gas leaking between her lips. That bitch had kicked a hole in his neck. It would pale in comparison to the one he was going to dig through her. 'Sir, the mutants have escaped and have manage to make it to the pen levels.' Kenji Fujimoto stepped out of his office, a wicked smile etched on his holographic visage, 'Excellent. I must say, I am a scary judge of talent.' He meandered past his impetuous worker and made his way to the executive elevator, which would take him straight to the top of the building. 'But sir...what should we do?' Fujimoto pondered the question for what must have been a second, then the doors slowly closed on his words. 'Blow the pens...'

A high-pitched scream erupted down the halls, along with the crash of flesh on metal. Wolverine stood defiant in the doorway, blood trickling down his face, his eyes locked on the form of the female bodyguard. She lay unmoving atop the doorway Logan had used her as a -key- for, and the mutant stepped in to make certain his prey was finished. He was not prepared for what he saw. Mutants...hundreds of them...chained to the walls, floor, ceiling...whatever could hold them. Claws retracted, Logan could do nothing but stare, waiting for his partner to show up and deduce what the hell this was all about.

This story is getting longer than we anticipated! Stay tuned for Chapter Three: PAYBACK!


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